Page 130 of The Doctors Will See You Now

Gossip was an online and print magazine, and I’d been on their payroll as a columnist for several years. The goal of the magazine revolved around digging, swindling, or bribing the firsthand scoop and juicy gossip from the rich and famous of the world, particularly the ones residing in New York City.

It was trashy and trope-y and just about everything you would expect from something titled Gossip.

Celebrities, as a rule, were all the same; they loved when we noticed them but hated us when we hung their dirty laundry out to dry.

Although, it should be noted, I wasn’t completely on the dark side like some of my fellow columnists in the industry. I only gave my readers mostly factual celeb news with very little embellishment. I followed the yellow-brick road to reality, even if I stepped off onto the grass every once in a while. Other conniving vipers ran around in the forest looking for the juiciest poison apple to plant in a celebrity’s hands.

With that said, I derived unmitigated pleasure from writing about some celebrity heartthrob who’d fucked his nanny while his wife was on a movie set thousands of miles away—his nanny having spilled the beans with proof—and I didn’t think that would ever change.

Of course, the same went for the cheating wives and the asshole celebs who treated their assistants and staff like shit.

To make a long story short, my job at Gossip had started out as a short-term plan after I’d graduated college and left an awful mess of a relationship, but somehow, it had turned into a career. Hell, at twenty-nine years old, when I looked back on my life, I wasn’t even sure why I was still working there.

Seriously? Why am I still there?

I stabbed my fork into the asparagus on my plate and wondered how I’d reached this place, making a career out of something I didn’t enjoy, and going on first dates with men like Barron just because I was that desperate for a penis. Good Lord, when I really thought about it, my life’s train had derailed off the motherfucking tracks.

As if on cue, Barron grinned from across the table and held his fork out toward me. “You need to try this,” he urged me, motioning the fork for emphasis, and I shook my head. “Just try it, Harlow. Their lobster is to die for,” he said and nodded toward the fork that was now two inches from my face as if I were somehow still questioning what he wanted me to do despite the step-by-step tutorial.

“Uh…” I grimaced once the fishy seafood smell hit my nostrils. “I’m not a big fan of fish.”

“But it’s lobster.”

“Yeah…fish…lobster…pretty much anything that swims in bodies of water… I’m not a fan.”

“C’mon,” he continued, and I had the urge to smack the fork away from my face. “No one can resist Daniel’s lobster.”

“Actually, I can.”

He stared at me and I stared at him; Mortal Kombat’s theme song played in my head.

For the love of God, move your fork away from my face.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour, he took the bite of lobster himself, moaning his delight out loud. “God, it’s good.”

If dinner was a preview for later, it was safe to assume I should just get the fuck out of here before the bill came. Fake some kind of emergency. Text one of my friends to save me from the inevitable disaster that would most likely occur before the evening was through.

Good plan, Harlow! Text Amanda.

Amanda was one of my oldest and closest friends from college, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d helped me get out of a similar situation.

While Barron stayed mesmerized by his wine and lobster, I discreetly slid my cell phone out of my purse and texted my best friend with the hopes that she’d have the perfect fake emergency. And then, I’d beg her to help me execute it.

Me: Help. Me. I need an emergency.

Amanda: Nope. Not this time, Frances.

Me: What??? I’m dying here! (And stop calling me Frances. You know I hate that.)

Frances Harlow Paige. My full name—almost as bad as Barron Alexander Conrad III—that I didn’t go by anymore and no one ever called me. Trust me, Harlow, as unconventional as it was, suited me much better.

But occasionally, my best friend liked to be a bit of a bitch and taunt me with the fact that I’d been named after my grandmother.

Fucking Frances. God, that name was the complete opposite of me.

Amanda: Considering it’s your actual first name *and* I think it’s adorable, I’m ignoring your request. And maybe you should give this one a shot, Harlow. He could be an amazing guy. He could be THE guy.

Me: Now is not the time to begin a career in motivational speaking! This guy keeps talking about his wine’s legs and shoving lobster in my face. I need help in the form of a fake emergency. Anything will do. Come pull the fire alarm. Call in an anonymous bomb threat.